


How Do We Sleep At Night?

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Dreams and Nightmares, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27557470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: Paul is swallowed up by his painting.John abandons ship.(Some horror-themed drabble I intended to post on Halloween.)
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	How Do We Sleep At Night?

**Author's Note:**

> The first part is inspired by Paul's painting called 'The John Room'. Here's a quote from Paul talking about it: "I was just sketching, blocking it in quite roughly, and I was going to make another character there, the first sketch was done in the blue, to get the composition – but as I started to fill in a little bit, I got a very strong feeling that was John Lennon’s face. The one with the face on the clothes, sitting down. It had a look that was John Lennon. Just in a moment, it reminded me – it may not remind anyone else of John Lennon, but that for me it reminded me of him ... John is a very strong, important person in my life, I always enjoy getting an image of him. It’s like if you dream of someone, if you dream of your father and he is dead, in your dream you meet him again, and if it is a good dream, it is a wonderful moment because for two seconds you are with him again and you don’t think, Oh, he’s dead, I can’t enjoy this moment. You accept it. So in paintings, this sometimes happens to me, and this was a bit like that, meeting John again, drawing his face. "
> 
> Basically, this was just a little writing challenge to myself that was supposed to be posted on Halloween. Essentially: What would a Paul nightmare look like? What would a John nightmare look like? How many references can I fit in to such a small piece of drabble? This is the result - spooky and angsty.

**Paul McCartney / 1990s**

The brilliant thing about painting is that you can sculpt your own emotion as you go. You can be so absorbed by what you're creating that the world melts like dripping acrylics and suddenly you are free. No burdens, no worries.  Today he paints on a large canvas in the garage, tips of his fingers coated in scarlet paint and shirt already splattered with various hues. Linda's gift to him, Magritte's glasses, sit perched on his nose as he works. And maybe it's the slightly nauseous feeling in his gut from the wrong prescription that makes him lean closer, squinting to get a sharper image of what he's doing - maybe if he had the sense not to disappear into his work he wouldn't have fallen inside of it. The horror sets in immediately.

His legs are locked into the floor, a sickening sense of dread curling around him and squeezing the breath out of him. The walls are cherry red and the floor is black, gripping at his claves and pulling him down slowly like molasses. There’s something buzzing in the air, electric and dangerous. He looks up, seeing a vague figure looming on the other side of the room. Their blurry visage seems to bend in and out of proportion, colours fuzzily drifting in and out of each other. He grasps at the glasses and rips them off, fear thrumming in his chest.  _ John _ . John draped in red, looking like an Emperor. His hair falls softly around his face, eyes glowing dangerously bright, piercing right through him. The jolt of shock he always gets when he realises he is in a dream hits him, propelling him through the five stages of grief all at once. He clambers forward, no time to spare for words or anything, but he can’t reach his companion. His strides are far too slow, the brushstrokes under his feet are obstructing his passage towards his friend. 

“John,” Paul huffs, pulling himself closer. His skin feels cold, the veins underneath the pale skin of his wrists standing out as a bold purple. He swallows down the phantom sick that teases his throat, a groan twisting out and sounding strangled and awful. He hopes John didn’t hear it. 

There’s a horrible pressure over his gut when he finally wills himself to look up. The wall boasts hanging masks, and to his horror he instantly recognises that all the faces are his own. Different stages of his life, different expressions. The torn up grief of his fourteen year old self sitting right beside the stoic sixteen year old with the slightest flicker of colour at the corner of his mouth. He steps back, mouth agape and eyes brimming with tears as he bears witness to all of his faces, moving in his peripheral vision and snapping into stillness when he looks directly at them. His gasp is swallowed by a cry he hadn’t meant to let out, hands clamping over his ears.  _ This isn’t real _ , he reminds himself.  _ It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. _

“Was it?” John asks him, “Was it really just a dream?”

_ It felt so real to me _

Paul squeezes his eyes shut, he can’t stand to look at those faces any more. He wants to wake up. He shakes his head in violent thrashes.  _ Wake up! _

His skin shivers, brushstrokes making up his pigment quivering. He feels the room breathe in and out, he hears his voice, layer upon layer of his own bloody voice crooning and crying. He turns around, and John is still there, draped in red with hooded lids and thin lips pressed into an unreadable line. 

“John, I need to wake up!” he demands. The anxiety is scorching the column of his throat, the heaviness in his gut he hasn’t known since John died growing and growing. He’s never had a dream like this before. He hates it. _ It should be nice. It should be the two of them with their guitars _ . This is hell, it has to be. Some kind of sickly purgatory at the very least. John simply looks away. Paul can’t wake up. He’s pounding his chest with his fist, stamping against the ground in the desperation to rouse himself from his sleep. Nothing is working. He’s still here, drowning in fear and dread. He stumbles to John, gripping his cloak in clenched fists just to feel something tangible and real. He falls at John’s feet, uncontrollable tears streaming. John is glaring at him, growing larger and larger. The figures around them turn around and watch the spectacle, John towering above them all, absorbing everything. Paul’s heart is bleating, throat constricting around a plea for help.  _ Come back to me _ . The faces on the wall cry in a succession of octaves that make Paul’s ears ring. His head sinks into his hands, crying out the fever raging inside his body. 

A hand rests on his shoulder, and when he opens his eyes he recoils in shock when he’s met with John’s warm eyes. Human, soft and gentle eyes. Paul tries to stammer through the shock of it, but can’t seem to articulate anything beyond a choked sob that John somehow understands. His face is made up of various shades of warm hues, gradually shifting into precise brushstrokes that Paul can manipulate when he presses a timid hand to John’s cheek.  _ Such a beautiful boy _ . 

“You promised you would never leave me,” John says it, or perhaps he sings it. And perhaps it’s Paul’s own voice that he hears, but it’s John’s lips that are moving. A swell of sadness rises within him, stray regrets and unattended mourning inflamed and brought to the surface. He holds John’s head in his hands, and has the horrible temptation to pry off this beautiful face and place it on the wall along with the other masks. Maybe he should wear it himself. Did they ever really share in each other’s minds? Time has stretched on so long, memories have faded and twisted up and out of shape. Perhaps this will be all he has. John’s gentle looks at him, the sort of looks reserved only for Paul. Those precious looks of understanding and compassion and beauty. The creative spark flickering in those warm eyes. And he understands it, he always has. Why John ripped those masks from him and hung them on the wall like trophies. I’s not about wanting to wear John like a mask, he wants to exist inside his skin to understand what was unspoken. The levels they never reached. All the lost opportunities. All the music never played out. He wants to breathe it in and experience it. He feels like Narcissus hovering over the water. He’s leaning over, pungent paint fumes making him dizzy and sick, holding John like he’s a tether to reality when really, he’s far from that. He always was. And Paul never wants to let go. He can’t bring himself to move, to do the deed and peel John’s mask and keep it for himself. In the delirium of a nightmare, he finds peace just holding John, cradling him in his arms and staring for an eternity. The world simmers down, the walls have stopped convulsing, and John opens his mouth to speak.

“The lovers that never were,” he whimpers, a soft sob against Paul’s palm. And then he’s gone. He blurs out of focus, morphing into random shapes made up of colours that are not John at all. Paul screams, dragging his fingernails through the paint, still wet and clinging to his skin. He shouts unintelligible words, scrambling as he attempts to assemble John’s visage once more. But he’s gone. And the voices from all around are murmuring. They are condescending and borderline threatening, Paul’s skin feels aflame and his throat is raw from crying. The not-John’s circle around him, staring, speaking words too softly and too vaguely for Paul to understand. And then everything grinds to a halt. The figures are still. The paint has settled. The only living thing is Paul. He whips around and sees that the masks are silent and still now, barely resembling Paul anymore. He draws himself to the nearest wall, pressing his back to the dried paint, fingertips dragging across the subtle texture. He’s trapped. It’s John’s room but John isn’t here. It’s their dream but only one of them can dream it now. 

\---

**John Lennon / ~~1968-80~~ ?**

He’s on a large ship like the one he used to imagine belonged to the Treasure Island crew when he was a boy. The crowd gathered on the boat is too large for the vessel to handle, faceless people pressed together, pushing him out towards the edge of the ship. He squirms between the clusters of bodies, skin going hot with rushing nerves. And maybe that would be ok but Paul is at the hull of the ship, looking out towards the ocean. He’s calm and in control, he’s alone but not lonely. And maybe _that_ would be ok if it weren’t for the almost tangible force pressing against the center of his chest. Heartbreak crackling like a cellophane in his ears.

“Paul!!” he yells out. Paul turns around but his eyes are black and cold. They are all-seeing but somehow never land on John. 

“Look at me!” he pleads, palms pressed to either side of his skull, “Look at me!”

Everything fractures so quickly. 

“So, what happened in Rishikesh, John?” Paul grins, manic and teasing, the corners of his mouth stretching upwards - tearing right through that pretty face. Humiliation tints John’s flesh rose. He’s wearing it like a skin. Everyone can see it. He hears the laughter, the snide jabs. His ego is being torn to shreds. 

Linda is at his side, curling around Paul like the roots of a poisonous plant, fitting snugly at his side with her shiny blonde hair glimmering in the non-existent light. John writhes like a man possessed, jealousy grating at his already bruised heart. 

“Shut up!” he screams, the edge of the railing pressing into the dip of his back painfully. He has to get out. He’s crying, sobs wracking his body and the laughter is filling his ears and making it hard to breathe. He twists his body around, looking towards the thrashing sea, the violent darkened water threatening to rip him to pieces. 

But there, just within his field of vision, is another boat. Crisp white sails like surrendering flags aboard a sleek black ship slices through the water and glides towards him. Yoko stands at the bow of the ship, tiny and alone. John doesn’t think, he jumps. His body is flung through time and space, from the old to the new, and he is born again when he hits the floor under Yoko’s feet.

Her voice is fuzzy, like she’s talking from the other end of a telephone, speaking in unintelligible poetry. He lies on his back, huffing for air like he’s been starved of it for so long. Her hand trails over his chest, palm pressed over his heart and her eyes locked on his. She says something, something he misses because he can’t hear anything above the ringing in his ears, the screams of stadiums filled with fans and angry yells of the South and the horrible laughter from the other ship. Yoko steps back, unsmiling and unaffected when his body is lifted up and clumsily thrust over the side of the ship. He grips the edge with both hands, dangling over the angry water. It’s just like in the movies, holding on by his fingernails. John cries out, calling out her name like a desperate prayer. He screams and screams, her name becomes a mantra. She looks at him, eyes filled with pity then apathy. Her fingertips brush over his bloody knuckles, one last feather-light kiss and then she’s gone. He looks down, inexplicably able to see the bodies floating just beneath the murky surface of the water. He sees Brian’s figure being tossed around helplessly. Anonymous sailors. Photographers with lustful eyes. Bottles of pills, bottles of booze.  Terror shakes his core, another scream to the empty eternity. He cries out for Paul, his voice so shattered and raw he winces at the sound of it. He’s desperate. He doesn’t want to drown. No one can save him, no one wants to save him. 

As he falls he’s reminded of the knife that dangles above his and Yoko’s bed.  _ Cut ties with the past _ . He feels like a knife slicing through air, cutting tendons of love as he falls to his doom. It was always going to end this way, he knew it right from the start. His body hits the water, eyes fixated on the sky. 


End file.
